Holding Your Hand
by rslhilson
Summary: When Wilson's supposed cold takes a turn for the worse, House faces the possibility of losing his best friend. Fluffy oneshot. H/W friendship


_Holding Your Hand_

He slouched in the plastic chair, cane resting on the nightstand and Vicodin bottle twirling around his nimble fingers. In a matter of hours his life had gone from solving medical mysteries and marveling at Cuddy's breasts to waiting silently in a hospital room, staring only at the fragile form on the bed. Sarcastic remarks were replaced with beeping monitors; late-night porn sessions were pushed aside in favor of flipping mindlessly through the hospital's 200 TV channels. It was funny how quickly life could change…how suddenly one set of priorities could be overruled by another.

A coughing fit interrupted the rhythmic tones of the vital monitors. House set the pill bottle down and sat forward, gently easing the patient into a sitting position with one arm and using the other to reach over and adjust the oxygen levels.

"Easy, easy."

The coughing finally slowed to a stop, and House plugged his stethoscope into his ears.

"Breathe," he commanded.

But the breath sounds were wheezy, strangled. It was taking too much effort. The patient closed his eyes, and House let him lie back down among the pillows.

It wasn't right, seeing him like this. Matted brown hair in need of a wash, sweaty skin gleaming with fever, eyes hollow and tired. The respirator failed to muffle the sound of another harsh cough, and for the first time in his life, House felt truly hopeless.

* * *

"Wilson, wake up, you have bald losers to see." House limped around the kitchen, filling two mugs with bitter black coffee and opening cabinet doors in search of sugar packets. "C'mon, don't make me do all the work here."

The sound of coughing came from the bedroom, and House's head snapped to attention.

"Are you sick, Wilson?" he called out, and grinned at the expletives that were shouted back in return. He was going to have a lot of fun with this one.

He made his way into the room and leaned against the doorframe. "Looks like our Boy Wonder oncologist has finally succumbed to mortal illness," he mused – or taunted, depending on one's point of view.

"Shut up, House," Wilson groaned hoarsely. "I already feel like shit."

House left, only to return toting a thermometer and a bottle of Tylenol. Tossing his cane on the bed, he forced the stick into Wilson's mouth.

"102," he announced gleefully. "You're sick."

"I think we've established that."

"Fever, dry cough, and I'm assuming fatigue. Any other symptoms I should know about?"

"Does my hatred of you count?"

"Not today. It means you're lucid, at least." House shook two pills into his hand and held them out to Wilson. "Take these."

"No water?"

"I swallow Vicodin all the time without water. Don't be such a wuss."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and sunk further into the blankets. "My throat hurts."

"You didn't mention that when I asked you about other symptoms," House said, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in mock disapproval.

"I figured it'd be intuitive for a genius like you," Wilson retorted. He coughed again, eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain. "Please, House."

House rolled his eyes. "One glass of water, coming right up…wuss."

A few minutes later, pills swallowed, Wilson fell back to sleep. House left the thermometer, water bottle, and Tylenol within reach before making his way to PPTH alone.

* * *

"How's he doing?" Cuddy asked softly, poking her head through the doorway.

"No change," House muttered.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, food? Do you…need some more pills?"

"What I _need_ is an instant cure for pneumonia." He leaned back in his chair, massaging his leg and glancing up at the vitals monitor. "How long do you think he can last without breathing?"

"He's not dead yet, House."

"_Yet_. Key word."

"I know you're worried – "

"Really? What gave me away?"

"House, if you need someone to talk to, you know I'm here."

He swallowed, fixing his eyes on his friend before allowing them to travel back to Cuddy.

"What I need…is Wilson."

* * *

Sending the team off to test for something or other, House collapsed into his chair and crossed his legs on his desk. Fishing his cell phone out of his pocket, he dialed the only number he had on speed dial.

"Hey. How's my best friend feeling?"

"Could be better."

"Well, you sound fantastic. Is that heavy breathing, or do I just have bad reception?"

"I'm just tired." The coughing that followed made even House move the phone away from his ear.

"Right. You're so tired that you can't even breathe."

"Leave me alone, House. I was sleeping before you called."

"Sorry." Whether or not he actually meant it was questionable. "Have you taken your temp recently?"

He heard some rustling and some more coughs before the hoarse voice came back on the line. "103," Wilson reported tiredly.

"Yep. Getting better already. Take some more Tylenol before your brain melts to mush."

"I'll see you later, House."

* * *

Hospitals were always noisy, even at night. It was a wonder how patients got any sleep. Between the beeping of monitors and the shuffling of nurses and the occasional crash cart races for emergencies, the dark sky outside the window was the only indication that the rest of the world was asleep.

House had positioned his body so that his top half was on the chair and his legs were resting on the corner of the bed, but he kept slipping so that his ass sagged uncomfortably in-between. He sighed audibly, twisting his body as much as his bad leg would allow, trying to find a way to lie as flat as possible without falling.

A movement on the bed caught his eye, and he quickly used his arms to push himself upright again.

"Wilson."

A whimpering groan escaped Wilson's slightly parted lips beneath the oxygen mask, and his hand shakily patted the bed as if in search of something.

"Wilson. Can you hear me?" House tentatively laid a hand on Wilson's head as it jerked a couple of times on the pillow. "Wilson, it's House."

But Wilson's eyes didn't open. Instead, House looked down in surprise as he felt Wilson's hand find his.

Bowing his head in consent, he allowed the feverish fingers to curl around his own.

* * *

He hadn't known he could move so fast. Cane foregone, pain ignored, he'd half-run, half-limped to grab the phone from the nightstand, pressing it to his ear against Wilson's strangled gasps for air.

"Get an ambulance here stat. I have a man in respiratory distress."

Tossing the phone back on the bed, he heaved Wilson upright, one hand supporting him by the shoulder and one hand rubbing his back in circles.

"Take it easy. I need you to breathe." He glanced at the doorway, knowing the EMTs couldn't have arrived in a mere 30 seconds, but hoping anyway.

"Can't…House…"

"Slow it down." House snapped back to attention and locked his eyes in Wilson's. "Breathe with me, Wilson. In…"

He inhaled slowly through his nose, making sure it was loud enough for Wilson to hear.

"Out…"

He exhaled through his mouth, watching intently as Wilson struggled to keep up.

"Again. In…"

He didn't know how many times they'd repeated the cycle before he heard the banging on the door.

"Keep going. I'll be right back."

He returned with the flood of EMTs, letting others take charge for once as he watched them slip a respirator over Wilson's face and poke him with meds.

"Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro," he told them as they transferred Wilson to a stretcher. "We're both doctors there."

* * *

House blinked, grunted, and blinked again. His tired eyes found the clock on the wall. 8 A.M. – he'd only fallen asleep 3 hours ago.

Surveying the room, he began to remember where he was, how he'd gotten there, that Wilson could die at a moment's notice and there was nothing he could do about it. He realized that he'd managed to sleep sitting upright – staying up until 5 in the morning could do that to you – and that his arm had fallen asleep. But if he moved it, he'd have to let go of Wilson's hand.

And he wasn't ready to let go yet.

* * *

"House! What's going on?" At the call she'd received from her Head of Diagnostics, Cuddy had run from her office to meet the ambulance at the entrance.

"I came home and he couldn't breathe. I don't know what the hell happened." House struggled to keep up with the rolling gurney, trying to ignore the fire racing through his leg.

"This morning you told me he was sick, but you didn't tell me _how _sick." Cuddy ran on the opposite side, her stethoscope already on Wilson's chest.

"I thought it was a cold!" He always shouted when he was angry, blue eyes wide and hand tightened in a death grip around his cane, as if he might need it for self-defense. Or maybe he just acted that way when he was scared.

"Cold, my ass. Try pneumonia." She wrapped the stethoscope back around her neck and began to shout orders to the doctors on standby.

The medical terminology that House would usually pick up on became a hazy blur. He stopped his pathetic, limping attempt at running and found an empty chair to collapse into, doubled over in pain. His hands shook as he tried to open the Vicodin bottle.

"Here." Cuddy knelt in front of him and gently pried the bottle away to open it for him. She shook several pills into his trembling palm and watched as he dry-swallowed them. "Are you okay?"

"No," he replied, grimacing as he rubbed his leg. "It's…burning."

"He's going to be okay, House. Wilson is going to be okay."

"You don't know that. You don't know anything."

"House – "

"I should've been there!" Again with the shouting, the surge of emotion that he wished he could lock away with his pain. He took a breath, made a conscious effort to calm himself. "I knew he was sick," he continued slowly. "The fever, the cough…I heard him breathing on the phone and he sounded like shit. I should've just…gone home."

Cuddy's dark eyes gleamed. "This isn't your fault. You can't blame yourself. That's what you tell him all the time about _his_ patients, isn't it?"

House turned away. "I only say that when they die."

"Wilson's strong. This isn't cancer, this isn't a terminal disease. Pneumonia's not a death sentence for him."

House nodded slightly, already feeling the relieving effects of the pills. "I know."

"And Wilson has something to live for. He'll want to pull through, and we both know that makes all the difference."

Now the magic of her soothing words was gone. "He does not. What the hell does he have to live for? Three ex-wives? A limping bastard of a friend who can't even take care of him when he's sick?"

"That limping bastard of a friend is his _best_ friend." Cuddy stood, smoothing her skirt and looking pointedly down at him. "And maybe…that's enough."

* * *

"You held my hand."

It was several days later, and Wilson was finally starting to regain enough strength to hold a decent conversation. After some annoyed fussing on his part, the respirator had been replaced with a nasal cannula, and there were fewer tubes pumping meds and fluids through his veins to keep him alive. Though he wouldn't admit it, House hadn't left the room since Wilson's admittance, except to pee. Cuddy and the team had provided him with food trays and Vicodin refills, and at Cameron's suggestion, Foreman and Chase had even carried in a couch for him to sleep on.

House turned away from the window to face his friend, who had taken to falling in and out of sleep but had clearly just woken up again. "Did not, you idiot."

Tired as he was, Wilson managed a small smile. "I'm sick, not a moron."

House limped back to his bedside and eased himself into the chair, glancing quickly at the monitors but not letting his eyes linger with concern for too long. "I'd like a minute for rebuttal."

"Admit it, House – you were worried and you cared, so you held my hand. It's no big deal."

"No, _you _held _my _hand. Just because I can hear _you _caring through the wall doesn't mean you could hear _me_ caring through your delirium," House retorted. "And if it's no big deal, then you can shut up about it."

Wilson's chocolate eyes found House's crystal ones.

"Okay, then."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll shut up about it." He coughed, closed his eyes as he caught his breath, and then snuck a peek at his friend. "But you _were _worried, and you _do_ care."

"And you _are _a wuss."


End file.
